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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28641519">you’ll rise above (crowned by an overture bold and beyond)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/azvremoon/pseuds/azvremoon'>azvremoon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Minecraft (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>/dreamsmp rp, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Gods, Identity Reveal, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, i wanted c!tommy to go feral so i made him the blood god :), this is a oneshot collection; not a coherent fic by any means</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:41:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>15,719</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28641519</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/azvremoon/pseuds/azvremoon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy is not sixteen. He has faced too many open wounds, dripping ichor onto blood-stained warzones, to be just a child. He is Blood and War and needless death, an all-in-one special of everything that can ruin reality.</p><p>
  <i>(Tommy is the blood god. No one should know, but this server can't stop pushing him over the edge.)</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream &amp; TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade &amp; TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>128</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2105</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1.1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This idea has been on my mind for a while. I don’t why but I just like the idea of Techno going all <i>blood for the blood god</i> while said blood god is standing next to him just wanting some affection from his family.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Tommy likes playing pretend.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The role of a reckless child was fun, for a time. He may be naturally hot-headed and energetic, a reflection of fast-paced conflict that ends in celebration, but he is still not the toddler throwing a temper tantrum that most see him as.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps acting as if he is something he is surely not is comforting for the sole reason that Tommy knows he is irredeemable otherwise. There is no argument to be made in the favour of deities who trample over innocent lives for their own amusement. Tommy never stops playing his games and he never stops feeling absolutely fucking terrible for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most of Tommy’s brethren had fled to their own Olympus eventually. High on their own superiority complexes, they had begun to view themselves as too mighty and the humans below them unworthy of any respect. But Tommy had lingered, for he had never been delusional enough to consider himself absolved of sin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gods are no strangers to loneliness and Tommy had grown unsettled in the silence, but he had still felt no urge to run for the paradise high up in the clouds. Tommy hated his own kind and they hated him in turn for refusing to conform. And so Tommy turned to humanity in his search for a place to finally call home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil had taken him in, seeing an orphan in rags instead of the monster feasting on terror that Tommy truly was. The man had been blessed with the wings of an angel but nothing could have smoothed out his hard edges born from years stuck in hardcore servers. Tommy had thought that a family like this, full of adventurers and leaders and fighters, was a good fit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy had loved the man for a time. That feeling had not lasted for long, not when Phil had abandoned him despite the pretense that Tommy was still a child. He can take care of himself but Phil doesn’t know that, Phil has never known that, and simply being able to go on without starving never meant that Tommy didn’t crave earthly ideals of affection. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy may be a god but he’s a boy first and foremost and he shouldn’t have grown this expectant of neglect. There’s a reason he had so eagerly burrowed into whatever warmth Wilbur was willing to provide, even when the man was caving to craziness in that cold ravine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then there is Techno. Technoblade is no god, but instead a warrior, a legend born in the bloodbaths he’d so eagerly carry out in the name of a god he does not realise is his brother. But Techno has always thought himself as better because of his ideologies, absolutely refusing to concede the other side of a conflict. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They share the same stubbornness, Tommy and Techno, and being so stubborn has never done the Tommy they think is normal any good. Techno wears the skull of a boar, the remains of a beast, to cover up the simple fact that no matter the tusks that protrude from his mouth, he is still so utterly human. It is far too cliché for the mortals that roam this server to lie to themselves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy can be arrogant, he can be cocky and entitled and a bit of a brat, but he’s not disillusioned enough to consider himself a victor in the area of philosophy. He does not stand on any moral high ground, he knows that for a fact. But he is untouchable if only because he is a god, a higher being that will forever heal instead of caving to any serious injuries.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Techno bleeds red. Tommy bleeds gold. Techno has three lives. Tommy has one, but that single life is ever-lasting. A fight between them would not be fairly matched. It’s lucky for the sake of Techno’s pride that Tommy feigns having the strength of a newborn fawn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For Tommy is an actor even when his priority is bloodshed. He had downplayed his skills, kept his eyes wide and bright and wholly innocent, pretended all of his righteous rage belonged to a child screeching out for attention. It was easy to fool Dream. Tommy had to fake two hearts breaking and somehow the man was none the wiser. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dream is not of godly birthright, but he is the protégé of Strategy and Chaos, narcissism and sharp wit swirling around in a frail human body. Tommy is Blood and War and needless Death, an all-in-one special of everything that can ruin reality, and he could snap the supposedly invincible man’s neck in an instant if he wished so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But playing along with this unnecessarily dramatic charade had been interesting, to say the least. Dream tried and tried and tried to break the human he thought Tommy was, so eager to shatter the spirit of the one who would never stop trying to challenge him. In turn, Tommy had submerged himself in the role of a lost child, drowning in partially false sorrow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a genuine sense of disappointment there, at how little everyone had fought against Dream’s decisions, for Tommy is always the scapegoat, the easy way out of any trouble. But Tommy has witnessed the seasons change an uncountable number of times and frankly it seems he’ll always be faced with betrayal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The care for the discs had been overplayed just a tad. They had been a diversion, a distraction for Tommy when he had little else to pay attention to, and Dream had pounced when he saw the chance to manipulate a sixteen-year-old boy. </span>
</p><p><span>But </span>Tommy is not sixteen. He has faced too many open wounds, dripping ichor onto blood-stained warzones, to be just a child. He has festered destruction in his wake for decades on servers where respawning was infinite and the outcome has mattered little. Witnessing the Esempi operate under different terms had made Tommy’s stomach turn. </p><p>
  <span>Death here can be a permanent matter and Tommy wanted to change that, wanted to right the wrongs of this server’s operator by keeping a few tricks hidden up his sleeve. Tommy had wished to create a place where he could partake in the play fights of bygone years with those he considers new friends and keep them breathing, keep their hearts beating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dream and Phil and Techno had ripped that opportunity right from his fingertips. There is nothing left to hold Tommy back now. They will pay for their indiscretions, whether or not it is Tommy enacting justice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you done?” Tommy asks disdainfully, crunching the rubble that had once been L’Manburg’s pavement underneath the heels of his sneakers. Techno’s head turns from where he had been surveying another one of his withers and his expression may be characteristically flat, but there’s discomfort in his eyes at the forceful tone of Tommy’s voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So much wasteful anarchy,” Tommy sneers. War is always meant to end in defeat, but there should be the chance there for rebuilding, for the sun to rise once more over the land that had faced destruction and for the people to start again once more. Tommy cannot find that third chance here. “Are you sure the god you have spilled so much blood for would be proud of this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For Tommy may be the personification of meaningless violence, but that does not mean he enjoys it when the consequences are too dire. It had burned deep in his chest to see Wilbur crumpled on the floor of a control room with a sword-shaped cavity in his chest and the hole in Tommy’s heart had never healed, not properly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>L’Manburg may have been force-fed propaganda by a corrupted government, but it was still a home to the people that stand in its ashes and now they each have nothing to their name. Tommy could survive in exile, through Logstedshire’s intense heat and the Antarctic Empire’s deathly cold. He cannot say the same for the humans left behind to deal with the consequences of this destruction.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy may owe the people of L’Manburg nothing. They have always blamed him for the seeds of deceit that are buried deep in the nation’s soil. They do not realise that war was always inevitable with Dream at this server’s helm and all Tommy did was pick a side to stand on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He may owe Techno something, for taking Tommy in when no one else would, for becoming a devoted follower to a god no one bothered to believe in anymore. But this is never what Tommy desired and he is an utterly selfish god through and through. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know too much of gods and worship,” Tommy murmurs, stepping forward, closer and closer to the brother that wields an axe in his direction. But this boy has no need to prioritise his own protection, not when he is forever destined to escape death’s clutches. “And I can tell that the one you revere would not consider this a triumph.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know nothing.” Techno’s growl pierces through the ears of every last citizen of this server who managed to witness such carnage, but all Tommy does is tilt his head back and laugh, a cackling noise that grates and concerns and makes others feel sick to the pit of their stomachs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I’m so sorry, I forgot what I am to everyone on this server.” Tommy smiles with all the sunshine he had once been known for exuding, but there is something distinctly off about his expression, as if he is giggling in Techno’s face for something the piglin is entirely unaware of, glowing in the ruins of the country he helped found. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, I know of course.” Tommy stops right in front of the man who has never earned his respect, craning his head back to meet those dark eyes, and letting the godly nature he has forever kept hidden sink into his gaze. “I’m a reckless idiot who could never stand a chance against the prodigal son. But, see, the thing is - you’ve made a very fatal error, Technoblade.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy winds his wiry arms around his brother’s neck, dragging him into an uncomfortable hug that makes Techno’s shoulders tense as Tommy glares over the man’s back and meets Phil’s gaze unwaveringly. The air rises into a cold chill and Tommy can practically feel the shiver run down his brother’s spine as he whispers. “You gave the enemy an unfair advantage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls back and smiles and takes far too much satisfaction as the confusion on Techno’s face melts into pure shock. The thorny wreath of all things rotten and wilted, Tommy’s very own crown that may not glitter like gold but is foreboding all the same, rests securely on his head. Sharp teeth poke out the curve of his mouth, not as overbearing as the other’s tusks, but a concealed danger, a threat or a warning of what is to come. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Violence is not always loud, it can be a quiet and cruel and unassuming thing. His shirt is still red and white, Wilbur’s old trench coat still hangs over his frame, but the small details that are out of place signal that this is not the Tommy they thought they had known. His blue eyes glint dangerously in the glow of the sunlight, the gaze of a wild predator who has cornered their prey.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For Tommy is Ares and Athena and Nike mixed into the form of a child who has witnessed his whole world be razed to the ground over and over again, victory and wisdom and brutal courage all owned by the boy this whole server had underestimated. Tommy feasts on Eris’ strife and discord just as he would carve his teeth into Techno’s golden apples. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All Techno has ever shown him, Tommy, the true god and not the false idol that Techno worships, is unfair bitterness, betrayal veiled by excuse after excuse. And so Tommy will take all that has been given to him by this man’s offerings, all the energy and the power and feral bloodthirst, and repay a debt to an old friend. Tubbo’s face is still covered in burns. Techno shouldn’t complain about the smaller scars Tommy will leave him with.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you see? You have sacrificed far too much blood to the blood god.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And that, in the end, will be your downfall, my dear brother. </span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 1.2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A very small continuation of this AU as it’s been on my mind a lot lately.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Tommy recognises that an ancient deity should not have so much unbridled strength to aid in their conquest.</p><p>Few believe in the gods of old and Tommy is rarely the receiver of any prayers murmured in the aftermath of war. The Esempi has little in terms of places to worship. The temples that would have once been dedicated to his kind are scattered and often ran-sacked, left to gather dust instead of their intention being realised. There is a holy land but murder is barred on its soil and blood is the blood god’s fertiliser, spilling from a watering can to spring new buds of power. </p><p>But Tommy has no need to have this server dedicate any offerings in the Blood’s name, not when his brother sacrifices enough for him to thrive on for a whole lifetime. That firework may have exploded into a flash of bright colours that would never match its deadly nature, but there had been a surge of power much more intense that would have been much more destructive if Tommy had not learned how to control his urges decades ago. </p><p>Tommy can still feed on violence that was not started in his stead, even if the effects are little dull, muted and subdued in comparison to Techno’s willing rituals, throats slit all in the name of War. But the Esempi does not know how to continue forwards without another conflict rising in its midst and every slash, every slice, every stab - it is all a delicious feast. </p><p>He takes every beating with a concealed smile because he can already feel the power thrumming beneath his skin, a slowly building volcano growing closer and closer to the inevitable eruption. Such trauma should have bred a boy less than human. It’s a good thing Tommy was never human in the first place. But his empathy knows no bounds and he is sick of witnessing child soldiers shed tears on battlefields that were not meant to be the burial place of the young. </p><p>Perhaps the blame can be traced back to this god. It’s his fault, for he is intolerable and selfish to the very core, refusing to step in and stop this from going too far. But Dream could have prevented all this bloodshed before it even had begun and it is always the job of an operator to become the server’s very own Atlas, carrying the weight of a whole world on their shoulders. Instead, Dream had opted to become a tyrant and the only way to get rid of such a beast is for what remains of L’Manburg to rely on Tommy’s reckless penchant for violence. </p><p>Once upon a time, maybe Tommy would have been willing to show some semblance of forgiveness. But Techno had razed the fruits of Tommy’s labour until it was no more and Phil struck a sword through Wilbur’s chest when his brother only had one heart left to lose and Dream tried so desperately to push Tommy further and further to the edge and waited for the boy to cast himself deep into a pit of lava. They will never deserve this god’s absolution.</p><p>Techno had once described violence as a universal language. Yelling and screaming had never quite gotten Tommy’s valid points across. So Tommy decided it was best to teach the man a lesson through broken bones and punctured lungs, cold voice commanding all of his withers to stand down as the explosions shuddered to a sudden stop. For hostile mobs follow Tommy’s direction at all costs, as he is violence and raw anger incarnate. Technoblade never stood a chance. </p><p>If Techno is a hypocrite for shouting betrayal when Tommy had never been silent of his own morals, then Dream is the monster who thinks himself a messiah. He is fully convinced that his flimsy control will never waver. He does not realise that the inescapable prison he had created will be his home. He will soon be that minotaur, hunted for sport, locked in a cage of his own making, and not even the red string of fate that ties him to his few allies could save him from Tommy’s wrath. </p><p>Tommy stares down at the clean crack that runs straight through that forever smiling mask, revealing terror painted on the freckled features beneath. Dream is a man high on his own hubris. It is only fair that Tommy should knock him down a peg or two. He plants a foot in the middle of Dream’s heaving chest, a mirror image of when the man had stepped on his back and whispered such vicious words as the scent of violent lava sung out and begged for Tommy to take control.</p><p>Ribs crack beneath the pressure, green eyes shaking as they linger on the sword stained in red that rests loosely in Tommy’s grip. It’s amusing, watching the wannabe god unravel at the seams by Tommy’s hand, the once picture perfect facade cracking and crumbling as the spectators of this arena of a crater witness the reality - Dream was never a man to put their faith in, not when he is easily bested by who they all thought was a weak and feeble child soldier, not when his humanity has been proven by the light flickering out of his gaze.</p><p>“Go on then, Dream.” Tommy smiles, all slick and impish, a mischievous smirk that somehow fits the childish features of the face that is still soaked in his brother’s blood. “Beg for my mercy, won’t you?”</p><p>Two down, one left to go. An empire to conquer and egos to strike down and a family to abandon just as they did him. At the centre of it all is a god wearing the face of a young boy, giggling in the face of danger that will never harm him.</p><p>In the end, Dream’s ideal future - Tommy, defeated by exile, lying in a pool of his own ichor at the bottom of a pillar that reaches far into the clouds - was never meant to be, for Tommy is always a victor, no matter who in the end wins the war.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 1.3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is the last addition for this AU that I have planned, although I do have some ideas in mind that I don't know if I'll write or not.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Phil has gained many titles in his years - a survivor of a hardcore world that would kill most, the hero that slaughtered the dragon who was his own son, a traitor against a government he had little reason to give loyalty to - but Tommy would be hard pressed to ever bestow the man the honour of being his father.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The severing of their familial connection is exactly why Tommy feels so at ease with running Phil through with a heavily enchanted netherite sword he had managed to snatch from Techno’s dropped inventory. His not-father is crumpled at the edge of the crater, panting through unsteady breaths, clutching onto the side of his pale blue uniform that is slowly starting to stain a vibrant red that Tommy thinks is much better suited for this failure of justice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy runs his hand along the edge of the blade, his bony fingers smearing the blood that coats its once spotless surface. Perhaps using such a weapon would be overkill when Tommy can punish just as easily with his fists, evident in bruised knuckles that barely even sting. But since he wielded this against the one who forced him into isolation, it is only fair he uses it for the father that abandoned him too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had to, Tommy!” Phil’s voice is insistent, panicked, words forced out between heavy coughs that suggest Tommy might have punctured something vital. He’ll be fine in the long run, Tommy is certain of it as he tosses a weak healing potion at his father’s feet, a chuckle making its way up Tommy’s own throat. It’s funny that he thinks Tommy would be easily swayed by sweet talk, when the Tommy that could cave easily was never Tommy at all to begin with. “L’Manburg killed Wilbur-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You killed Wilbur.” Tommy interjects, his voice freezing cold, cutthroat. He is quiet but gleeful in torment, a stark contrast to the boy that could never keep his mouth shut. “You had a choice, Phil. You always had a choice. You didn’t have to kill Wilbur, you didn’t have to rip the only thing I had left of him out of my hands, but you did. You have to live with the choice you made.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wilbur taught Tommy what his fellow gods would not. Wilbur pressed a guitar in hands that were only ever meant for battle and only chuckled softly instead of resorting to scolding when he gots the chords wrong. Wilbur was his own personal Apollo, a shining sun in a house left to darkness. Wilbur kept Tommy grounded when he still had a bit of sanity left in him. But then his brother became the apprentice of Madness and Tommy had to watch as his father carried out divine justice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You killed Wilbur because he became a villain, because he blew up L’Manburg, but take a look in a fucking mirror, Phil! You condemned Wilbur for the exact same stunt you pulled.” Tommy stares down at the collapsed form of an angel of death and takes bitter pleasure in the wound of his making, the open tear over human skin that spills red. “But destruction is always alright, only if it’s Techno’s doing, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Favouritism is a killer in disguise. It’s a disgusting thing that tore Wilbur apart and left Tommy behind in the aftermath to burn in righteous hatred. “There are children here,” Tommy murmurs, for shouting is not worth it when the battlefield is barren and the spectators stay silent. “You razed their homes to the ground, they have nothing left to return to. Are you not ashamed of yourself?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Phil does not seem to rise to the bait and that makes Tommy’s stomach turn, that this excuse for a parent does not care that he ruined the hard work of a bunch of teenagers that had to watch their home go up in flames. “And you’re not a child?” he asks instead, shaking arms barely holding himself up anymore and Tommy does not falter when Phil slumps even further.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not.” It’s correct, even if it perhaps shouldn’t be, for Tommy has always been considered childish amongst his fellow deities, an optimist by their standards for believing humans to be worth his time. Tommy brushes blood-stained fingers over the wreath that digs into his skull and reminds himself that no child would have witnessed the years of terror that Tommy was at fault for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know how to rebuild, how to keep moving forward even when the people who should care turn their back on me.” Phil winces and Tommy ignores the guilty reaction, mouth twisting into a malformed smirk at this man finally being confronted by his sins. “But Tubbo? Ranboo? They are children. They don’t know what I know. They shouldn’t have to face so much when they had done so little.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know, Phil.” The words unfurl on Tommy’s tongue like a snake slithering out of its hiding spot, venomous thoughts finally digging their fangs into his father. “I know what it’s like to be forgotten, because the world doesn’t remember the name of the blood god. And you sped up that inevitable process far before it should have arrived. You blew up this server’s history before it could ever be documented.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You decimated all of it.” Tommy stalks closer and closer till he is towering over Phil’s trembling body, his gaze emotionless and apathetic even though his tone gains more and more rage with every word that comes tumbling out. “And for what? Your fifteen minutes of fun. The books Ghostbur saved, the pets that belonged to my friends, the structures we spent hours and hours building? All gone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am War and this is not how War is meant to be.” His lips curl into a snarl, only instead of seeming to be a lonely and lost child screaming out for attention in violence because that is all the world ever taught him, Tommy finally looks to be the vengeful god that has been waiting for the right moment to strike. “War destroys but there should always be something, anything, left behind for everyone to have hope that they can continue on to better days. There is no hope left for anyone anymore and it’s all your fault.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wouldn’t understand,” Phil starts but is cut off by Tommy’s almost hysterical laughter as the god throws his head back and grins up into the darkening sky, amused by this attempt of defending inexcusable actions. “I don't care what you are, Toms, whether you’re sixteen or six thousand years old. You’re my son and I wanted to explain it all to you but I never got the chance-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are not my father!” The words burst out like a storm cloud rising over withered land, unexpected as they ravage through the god’s once calm demeanour. Tommy was born to the sky and the stars, to the dirt beneath his feet and the waves that lap at sandy shores. He is the product of the ancients crying out for someone to oversee disputes. Tommy harnessed his own power, grew wiser under war’s influence, stood at the helm of thousands of armies. Phil is nothing to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think you raised me?” A frantic laugh escapes Tommy once more, fingers dragging dark blood over the curve of his face as he giggles into his own hand. It’s absurd to the point of idiocy and entirely like a prideful man to think of himself so highly. “You taught me nothing. I walked on servers before the hub world ever existed, when the system would glitch at even the smallest of touches. And even when I pretended to be a kid, you taught me nothing still. Wilbur was there for me, but where the fuck were you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You will always keep on believing your own lies. You’ve told them so many times that you’ve started to convince yourself.” Tommy raises the sword in his grasp, the small patches where no blood has dried glinting under the flames that still rip through the wooden remains of houses and street paths. “But lies will not save you here, Phil. You wanted to send a message? Then I will give you the blood god’s response.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, but don’t worry. I won’t kill you.” Tommy absolutely could. Perhaps it would be better if he did. But Tommy is, in part, a merciful god who knows that the permanency of death is too much of a burden to bear, and he is also entirely desperate for revenge. Technoblade had three lives, he could afford to lose just one. Dream had ???, an unfair advantage. Tommy made sure to make their ends traumatic, long-lasting even if they will come back in an instant. He has an equally violent fate in store for Phil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I think it’s only fair to take away something you hold so dear in return. Wouldn’t you say so, Techno?” His brother rises over the rubble, still half-dazed from respawn, arms limp by his side as if even the server couldn’t rebuild them properly after Tommy’s treated him like a ragdoll. Pink hair is plastered to the pale planes of his face and there’s something sickly about his once ferocious expression. Tommy commands death just as easily as he commands violence and the respawn process has always been so easy to manipulate. It’s only right Techno gets a taste of his own medicine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy is death at the hands of another and swords piercing through fragile flesh, but he is also hope for new beginnings and the lengthy journey through hardships that will eventually end at a path paved with gold. He may not be the embodiment of justice, but he will be the judge, jury and executioner in this case, for no one else in these lands is willing or ready to enact punishment for the sake of a better future. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grabbing a fistful of soot-stained feathers, he bats away Techno’s pitiful attempt at intervening without even a second glance, the piglin earning another kick to his bruised ribs as he crumples to the ground alongside their father. Tommy pulls, tugs, rips them out and watches them scatter into the air alongside clouds of ash and dust, ignoring Phil’s obvious hiss of pain. A deep breath is taken, Techno hunches over his aching stomach, Tommy raises his sword in the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A heart-wrenching scream of agony rustles through the air and the audience makes themselves known with shocked, theatrical gasps, as if they are watching a pantomime and not the maiming of a broken bird. A pure white wing stained with a copious amount of blood clatters to the ground, chopped off cleanly at the base, the bone and muscle beneath exposed to the winter chill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An eye for an eye,” Tommy says simply, casting aside Techno’s fury-filled growl as he clambers to Phil’s side and wraps his cloak around the stump to staunch the heavy bleeding. Horrified eyes of a father led astray meet those of a son who has faced far too much neglect. Tommy doesn’t feel an ounce of sympathy. Phil walks around with the wings of an angel and yet feeds on chaos as if he is a demon himself. At least Tommy feels bad about the suffering he could bring. This has been a long time coming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You destroyed something important, so I figured it was only fair to steal something important back. Vengeance is a matter of equivalent exchange.” Tommy smiles once again, but it is hollow as the power continues surging through his veins, the thorns on his wreath growing out of control. “You flew up into the clouds and saw this destruction and smiled. Now, you can fly no longer, at least for now.” A god may have given Phil this gift. Now another god has taken it back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A flightless bird would not survive in lawless lands. You have the anarchy you crave, but at what cost? But I’m sure you’ll be fine. You have a wild boar to protect you, after all.” Techno glares, but without the mask crafted from bone, it is so evident how his bravado is failing and the man who paraded himself as unkillable tiredly gathers his father into a loose hold that could barely protect him from Tommy’s wrath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to be the villain? Then you will have to live like one.” It is Techno’s declaration, twisted on its head. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You want to be a hero, Tommy? Then die like one. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But Tommy cannot die, the ichor will simply keep dripping from his battle wounds and never stop flowing freely, and he has never deluded himself to be convinced that he is a good man. Tommy is no Theseus, for he is an observer of tragedy who always just takes on whatever role is best suited for the personification of violence. “Actions have consequences. I faced exile for the tiniest mistake. Much more will come for men like you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy peers down at them contemplatively, smiling as he takes in Techno’s absolute rage, the edge of his pointed teeth poking out almost endearingly if it wasn’t for the gore that covers his skin. “You worshipped me, but at the same time I was absolutely disposable to you. I wonder what you think of me now.” For the blood god was worth endless sacrifice and Tommy was just the ugly duckling of the family. “But truly, you betrayed me first if you ever thought the blood god would praise this thoughtless carnage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can do whatever you want, go back to your empire and rot in the snow for all I care.” Tommy swivels on his heel and strides forward, gaze locked on where Tubbo and Ranboo and Ghostbur, the ones he actually feels can find salvation, are waiting for him. The wreath melts away, his teeth mould back into their normal shape, the feral glint is washed away by bright and bold blue. “But it would do you good to remember the fate that awaits you if you try to hurt anyone here again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is Tommy once more, but these people will never consider him as human ever again. Perhaps that is for the best, for Tommy will not have to hide behind his false persona of a child who lost his rationality to war. The blood god never had rationality in the first place. Tommy turns, flashing a brace-filled smile, and if it wasn’t for the red-soaked trench coat, nothing would have changed from the days of old when Tommy still had the ability to act innocent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wish you a lovely stay in your very own hell, Dad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A new dawn will rise over this server and Tommy will take it in gladly, ready to find the new beginning he has been pleading for, sixteen years of memories wiped away in an instant with the ones who truly matter still standing by his side.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 2.1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I said I might not be writing more for this, but platonic hanahaki disease AUs are my favourite and I somehow managed to shoehorn it in here. I just used whatever popped up on google for flower meanings so I apologise if they are incorrect.</p><p>I guess this is an AU of an AU? If I do write more blood god!Tommy, which I probably will given how I keep getting ideas, it won’t include the hanahaki aspect.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A god’s curse is what has caused flowers to sprout beneath Tommy’s rib cage.</p><p>Love had grown sick of his wars turning happy couples into star-crossed lovers and so they had called on assistance from Nature, who had sprinkled seeds into Tommy’s lungs that could only be fertilised by the most one-sided of loves.</p><p>That day had taken place a millennia ago and Tommy had simply laughed, for there was never anyone for War to love, not when his own kind was so willing to cast him aside. Loneliness itself had become an ailment, however, and soon Tommy had found himself seeking comfort in the humanity his fellow gods had always scorned. </p><p>The disease, the curse, had begun to spread amongst servers when the gods needed a distraction and their typical games hadn’t filled their need to watch suffering in motion. Tommy had witnessed it infect battlefields, soldiers hacking up poppies in remembrance for their lost comrades, medics leaving behind marigold petals on blood-stained sheets in grief for their patients. </p><p>Soon, it had risen from dormancy and spread through Tommy’s system. It could not send him to an early grave, for Tommy’s flame can never be extinguished, but it’s forever there, forever fucking up his insides and leaving behind a cold ache that makes each breath heavy and stilted. </p><p>The disease works fast but his lungs never falter. The cavity in his chest has become a garden where the roots of unrequited love are too deeply embedded to rip out. The vines curl around his spine and slice through his veins and leave him being torn open from the inside. Any human would have been buried six feet under already, bones hidden deep beneath the soil that surrounded his childhood home, but no grave bestows the name of the blood god. </p><p>He is <em> eight </em>when they start for Phil. For Phil is Zeus through and through, a dweller of the skies who commands attention from his many accomplishments. He has his honour, has his survival skills and his hardcore reputation, but parenting is not one of his strong suits. Tommy realises that when he finds rue decorating his pillow on his birthday, the birthday Phil was too busy adventuring for, for rue represents all the regret and repentance Tommy deserves but his father will never deliver. </p><p>He is <em> eleven </em>when they start for Technoblade. Out of them all, Techno is the one who aligns with the blood god the most, violence being his only necessary language. He is Deimos, sparking dread in everyone who catches even a single glimpse of his beastly mask, but Tommy is too old to feel fear for this man. Instead he coughs up peonies, for the anger Tommy feels for being both disdained and revered by his brother, for the shame he tries to subdue for hiding his true self from plain sight.  </p><p>He is <em> fifteen </em>when they start for both Eret and Fundy. Tommy cannot compare neither Eret or Fundy to gods, not when their betrayals were both fueled by such human interests, not when they refuse to turn to the erraticism of the rest. Eret is a king, a golden crown glittering on top of dull hair, and Fundy is a fox, sly and cunning and wholly feral. For the pair of them, adopted father and son, black dahlias fill Tommy’s lungs as chokes on betrayal and dishonesty.</p><p>He is <em> fifteen </em>when they start for Schlatt. Perhaps some would immediately jump to conclusions and label the ram a Dionysus in a shoddy satyr disguise. But Schlatt, while indulgent in his drinking habits, was never particularly mad. His evil was lawful and calculated and Tommy thinks he might have made a good Hermes, a cunning thief who was quick-witted in gaining a position of power. The night after exile, Tommy spits out a rhododendron, a spiralling name for a flower that represents a warning Tommy should have picked up on sooner.</p><p>He is <em> sixteen </em>when they start for Wilbur. Wilbur had once been Apollo, a gifted musician, a ray of sunlight in Tommy’s otherwise dreary and repetitive existence as the son of an absentee father. But Wilbur malformed and blew L’Manburg sky high with TNT and now exists as nothing more than an echo of his former self. For his dead brother, Tommy lays bluebell petals at his grave. Constant loyalty, Tommy thinks, is a fitting choice for this one. Tommy would have followed Wilbur to the end of the world if he had simply asked. </p><p>He is <em> sixteen </em>when they start for Tubbo. The part of Tommy that can still cling onto fondness considers Tubbo a form of Aristaeus, blossoming only in the calm of a countryside with just his bees to keep him company, and Tommy wants that for the boy who does not deserve to be crushed beneath the weight of being the president of a failing nation. For Tubbo, for his best friend, Tommy pleads out into the night for Tubbo to forgive him with purple hyacinths filling his throat. </p><p>He is <em> sixteen </em>when they start for Dream. It wasn’t surprising that Dream had become Tommy’s very own Hades, not when Tommy was the only one to consistently disobey his orders, not when operators always have the ability to sense that something isn’t quite right with one of the server’s inhabitants. And so Tommy was sealed miles away from civilisation just to become Dream’s very own personal plaything to toy with when the bastard is bored, eating the pomegranate seeds willingly just for the sake of keeping up with this charade. Lobelias spill out without Tommy’s consent and despite the hostility, Tommy still feels some kind of affection for this man that will never be returned.</p><p>He is <em> sixteen </em>when they start for Niki. She had once been Hestia, bringing along the comforting presence of home and the hearth wherever she went, a kind-hearted sort of warmth following each of her steps. But now she has begun burning vulnerable anger as the first tree is set aflame beside her. The sweet taste of her cakes turns to ash on Tommy’s tongue as she casts the blame for everything his way and Tommy coughs up a yellow rose into the palm of his hand when no one is looking, representing the war of friendship and betrayal, for Tommy never thought such a soft one would turn their back on who she thought was a child soldier. </p><p>Tommy is eons old (and that is the truth this time) when he’s hunched over on a platform made of obsidian, teetering dangerously close to the edge, knobbly knees scraping against the rough material. There’s a hand over his mouth and blood dripping through the cracks in his hand. He is practically coughing up his lungs with the amount of buds spilling from his lips, as Quackity and Ranboo hover by his side, shaking hands keeping him steady, sickly expressions on both of their faces. </p><p>But he is towering over his father just moments later, the thorns cutting into his scalp keeping him grounded, petals stuck by blood to the curve of his neck and the front of his stained t-shirt. Phil peers up at him, gaze horrified, and Tommy doesn’t know if it's out of concern for his suffering son or out of the shock that comes with a wing becoming a stump.</p><p>“Oh, don’t worry about me, father dearest,” Tommy smiles. “I’ve been coughing up flowers for years now.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. 1.4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>These are some small things I ended up writing for the AU but couldn’t make into actual chapters, so I'm posting them all together instead.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s not your time to die, Tommy,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Dream commands, refusing to let his favourite challenge to just plummet into the pit of lava below. He’s right, in the end, even if it is for the wrong reasons. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dream thinks Tommy is playing right into the palm of his hand, that he’ll forever be able to partake in his mind games, that his control over this server will never cease. For someone who hides behind a mask, he’s so easy to read.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s never my time to die, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tommy replies, the spark of a god hidden behind the muted blue of eyes. It is the truth, for Tommy cannot die even as arrows cause ichor to flow from his neck and an explosion ravages his skin beyond recognition.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy climbs out of the final control room alive and well, burnt flesh wiped away by glowing fingertips, scrambling to run back to his respawn spot before someone notices something is amiss. He yanks the wooden shaft out of the wound and lets gold drip down his pale skin and wonders when he’ll finally break this act. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There are golden vines wrapped around Tommy’s ankles and wrists, a wreath of thorn and bone adorns his sun-kissed hair and a pair of equally golden wings poke out from his back, only hidden by easily-made illusions. It may all contrast to the worn coat that blankets his skinny frame, but these blessings mark the boy who smiles like sunshine as the bringer of death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dream thinks himself invincible. Dream thinks the lava could have burnt Tommy till he was simply no more. He’s wrong in both cases. He’ll only realise this when the blood god is holding a sword to his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lightning crackles across the night sky, lighting up the crater that now sits where L’Manburg once stood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Few remain in the spot where the nation broke up into tiny pieces. Those who were willing to cast Tommy back into the pit of blame had quickly taken their leave once it became apparent that Tommy wouldn’t take their scorn lightly. It had taken much convincing, but he managed to get a frantically fussing Karl to drag both Sapnap and Quackity to El Rapids so they could rest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eret hovers around Tubbo and Ranboo, the lanky endermen and the small human both seeming so tired in the aftermath of this carnage. Tommy will join them soon, will take refuge in Eret’s castle for the night before taking his friends and running for the hills, but for now, he lingers on the obsidian wall, meeting Ghostbur’s hollow eyes with his bright own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tommy.” Ghostbur’s voice is warbly, airy and easily caught in the wind even with its distinctly unsettling undertone. Tommy has missed this kind of sound that is hard to find in most humans, that kind of uniqueness that makes Tommy feel a little less alone in being an outlier. “I want you to bring me back to life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words do not make Tommy falter, for he is sure this has been a long time coming, ever since the residents that had once lived in this spot had decided that treating the ghost kindly without becoming patronising was apparently a challenge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I- I don’t know if I could. I might be Death, but I’m certainly not Life,” Tommy murmurs, trying to ignore how he can always see a tear in the ghost’s yellow sweater, exposing an open wound that no one but a god is able to still see. Life and Death are direct opposites that walk hand in hand, but Tommy has never tried reviving someone before. He has never needed to, not when most servers subscribe to the idea of infinite lives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Did death bring you peace, Ghostbur?" Tommy asks, stepping forward, closer and closer to the edge until he can loosely drag the ghost into a hug, his godly hands able to touch even the intangible. Ghostbur shudders but quickly sinks into him, likely starved of any sort of warmth. "Do you really want to come back or is everyone else telling you to?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You're not Wilbur, I've always known that you're not." It's barely more than a whisper. "But that doesn't mean you're not my brother and I want you to choose. Wilbur was manipulated enough in life, I don't want the same to happen to you in death."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ghostbur does not speak. The rain continues pouring. Tommy does not let go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy has always looked the most like their father, so it’s frankly a little strange that out of the three of them, he is the one designated as the forgotten child. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out of all of Phil’s pet projects, out of all of the orphans he had picked up from the side of the road, Tommy is the only one with blonde hair and eyes that sparkle with the determination to survive. Techno is pink all over with piglin-like ears and Wilbur has brown curls and a sharp sense of charm and neither of them have Phil’s inherent drive for survival, not when Technoblade has never faced a worthy opponent, not when Wilbur begged for a sword to be struck through his chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy cannot die but there is a noticeable difference between living life to the fullest or letting the waves drag you down under. He spent eons alone, wandering wartorn planes and wishing for the soft embrace of a family to call his own. Phil spent years stuck in a hardcore server with nothing but his own mind to keep him company. They are the same in that sense and they are the same in another, even if few are aware of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy has reached the clouds on top of a spiralling pillar and simply fell, the sea that had continuously tried to drown him every morning waiting to break his descent. But his wings had guided him home, sore from lack of use. He had been flightless for years, wings practically clipped because of the human he had tried to convince himself he could be, eventually ending up as a caged vulture lashing out against his self-made prison. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet Phil could soar, could fly through the server’s sky and feel the wind cast over his feathers. Jealousy had burned bright in the pit of Tommy’s stomach but that was never the cause of his act of vengeance on that fateful doomsday. Just as he said before, vengeance is a matter of equivalent exchange. Tubbo and Ranboo could not live without homes to return to. Phil could not live without something he had relied on ever since he was a child. It’s only fair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their wings are still different, even in purpose. Phil’s are white like the arctic snow, an imitation of a spotless and pure angel. Tommy’s are golden, shimmering in the light as they change form at a rapid pace. Sometimes the feathers are sharp and metallic, shaped like the blade of a spear. Sometimes they are dotted with the scales of a serpent. Sometimes they are coloured brown in tribute to a wise owl. They change without will or warning, transformed by the tide of war. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy used to fly high above battlefields and wait eagerly for the land to heal, for houses to be rebuilt and for towns to fill with visitors once again and for flowers to grow in the spots where blood was once spilled. Phil aided in L’Manburg’s complete annihilation and left behind a crater and had the nerve to laugh giddily from his spot up in the sky. They are so similar and yet not at all alike and resentment fills Tommy once more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighs, deeply, as he lands down on the roof of the cabin that he shares with two of his friends, two children that deserved better, wings fluttering to a stop before curling around his shoulders comfortingly. Tommy takes in the sight of this new start and finally lets himself smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tubbo is working on watering their garden as bees happily buzz around his feet while Ranboo soaks in the sun on a nearby bench. Ghostbur is checking on their farm, paying close attention to the blue-dyed sheep he still calls Friend. Tommy’s eyes stray and he finds a ghost in a woollen sweater with ram horns curling around his ears, the god holding back a laugh as he watches Glatt get increasingly irritated by Ghostbur’s never-ending optimism. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere far away, Phil trudges through a blizzard and laments the loss of one of his wings and the son who tore it off in the first place.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. 3.1 & 4.1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Two short takes on alternative paths blood god!Tommy could go on if he had never revealed himself on Doomsday. Death follows some aspects of canon, while Life is more canon divergent. </p><p>(Chapters are also now marked with the number before the dot representing which AU it is and the number after the dot meaning what part it is - e.g. 2.1 is the first part of the hanahaki AU, 1.2 is the second part of the original AU, etc.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Escape is futile, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Dream whispers with the sharp tongue of a serpent. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re stuck here forever, trapped in these obsidian walls. Doesn’t the reminder of L’Manburg make you squirm?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Shut the fuck up, Dream, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Tommy wants to scoff. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Aren’t you tired of playing the villain yet?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s a protégé of Chaos for you, all bark and so very little true bite. Well, at least his fangs will never sink into Tommy’s skin, even though he has the whole server operating to every single one of his whims. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s impossible to control a god, after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pandora’s box holds all of this world’s evils - an admin high on his own hubris and War itself. And soon that evil will be free to wander the crooks and crannies and craters of the Esempi, with hope left rot behind in the cage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But hope is nothing special, not a saviour, a criminal in its own right. Hope could be Tommy, could be the only one who could break that admin’s porcelain mask, or hope could be Dream, could be the only one with all the solutions to that three-life rule he imposed himself. Neither deserves a place outside of this prison.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Admittedly, unlike Dream, Tommy doesn’t need the help of explosion-esque distractions to remove himself from this cell. It might have been better for Sam’s sake if he escaped sooner. But this is a game that requires perfect precision and so Tommy takes the fist bashing into his skull without a second thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue eyes turn hazy as the red-dyed ichor drips down from a slice over his forehead, blood clotting in his eyelashes. It’s an unintentional attempt at appearing lifeless and paired with the bruises blossoming over his skin, it would make sense for Dream to assume he’s on the verge of death. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so Tommy has two choices. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Death.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy is tired. Above all else, he is so fucking tired. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The afterlife is kind, gentle, willingly accepting an offering from a lonely god thought most would cast him far away from their borders. For War is not kind, not gentle, never willing. It’s Tommy’s fault he has such a reputation but he cannot find it in himself to truly care. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gods cannot scar and humans cannot heal. That is perhaps why there is a fairly noticeable crater in Schlatt’s chest. The cut is clean, the incision almost surgical, exposing a heart that either thumps erratically or does not beat at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A jagged wound splits Wilbur down the middle, skin scraped apart by a diamond sword that had seen better days, to reveal a peek of lungs filled with soot and ash. Blue drips from their insides, an imitation of blood that ghosts should not be able to bleed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deaths are considered a badge of honour in wartime. Dying for one’s country is a great sacrifice. But there’s not much honour here in the deaths of a coward, a traitor, a victim of circumstance. They’ve been pulled apart, bones rearranged so all of their faults lie bare. There’s something utterly human about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So. This is the afterlife. A field full of flowers fertilised by the blood of fallen men and the two people Tommy placed his faith only to find disappointment. And yet, they seem different, the edges of their faces smoother, their shoulders relaxed, their skin no longer grey in death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tommy, tell me you’re not here,” Wilbur pleads, hands curled over Tommy’s shoulder, voice frantic. “Tell me you didn’t die, please-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t.” A silence breaks through the air, quiet apart from the warm breeze cascading over the field, rustling the trench coat that Tommy has always hated to take off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hate to break it to you, but you look pretty fucking dead to me, kid,” Schlatt points out without any tact, eyes scanning over the bruises that still litter his neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy grins and the wings unfurl from his back, glittering golden in the summer sun. His eyes flash with something powerful, a shine of the truth Tommy had always thought he’d take to his loved ones’ graves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Trust me. I’m not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Esempi lost the Blood God. And with it they lost their conflict, nukes turned to dust and vines shrivelled to nothing more than a stem. Their purpose has vanished from beneath their fingertips, as did the precious discs, for war and music go hand in hand, propaganda for poor souls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Esempi lost Tommy too. But he is not gone, not for good at least. But a break sounds nice, he thinks, as he takes in the looks of shock casted his way by two former presidents. Very nice, indeed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>-</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Life.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s gore staining Dream’s calloused fingertips, his skin hardened from the never-ending years of conflict that have brought fruit to Tommy’s long unused shrines and turned red by another attempt to beat some sense into what he perceives as his puppet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He surveys Tommy, cold and dead, crumpled on the floor with blood trickling from the side of his mouth, with something akin to apathy if it wasn’t for the greed that is visible in the vicious twist of his smirk. Another corpse, another meal served up on a silver platter, another death he can feast on to fuel his pride. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only dead men should not be able to twitch. Their fingers should not be able to shift across the obsidian floor, they shouldn’t eye their murderers with a smile full of vengeance, their broken legs should be too weak to stand up. And yet Tommy moves like a marionette controlled by revenge, his movements purposefully shaky and unsettling</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The limp limbs by his side crack as the joints slide back into place, the broken neck is lolling off his shoulders before Tommy holds his throat in place and lets the bones snap back together, the peeled back skin torn by just sharpened, bitten nails sews itself back together. As good as new, Tommy thinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No words leave his lips. He just stands there, bruises still evident across every inch of flesh, for washing them away will waste the energy he wishes to exert on breaking this false deity to pieces. Horror seems to crawl across Dream’s skin, noticeable in the man’s nervous swallow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are you-” he chokes out, stepping back as if the consequences of being so close to what should be full of rot has just now become important. Tommy just tilts his head to the side, that innocent and yet vindictive smile making his youthful face a little more off-putting, as if the blood wasn’t enough on its own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you think I’d just die?” Tommy asks, voice soft on the surface but accompanied by a cutting undertone, like a folk song sung by children on the playground, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>ring a ring of roses</span>
  </em>
  <span> that hides the harsh truth spelled out clearly but too much for a kid to understand. “You of all people should know I’m far too annoying to just let you win like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That sparks something in Dream’s shell-shocked figure, a burst of rage that floods all of the bastard’s rationality in pure spite. It takes three strides for his trembling fingers to lock in Tommy’s hair and there he goes, smashing what should be the fragile head of a human against the wall, as if he wants Tommy’s brain to splatter just so his mouth would keep shut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Tommy just smiles, teeth stained with blood that flows red in an easy imitation of humanity. Tommy has always been good with his illusions. It comes with being a trickster, for mischief is just another facet of war, sly and underhanded tactics that are considered cowardice even though War prides wit and victory more than it supports mindless brutality. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Violence thrums through Tommy’s nervous system, setting alight a fire that cannot be contained. Tommy won’t let himself be ripped apart by this monster, a man stuck in his own labyrinth, a minotaur shoved into such a human form. Techno proclaimed him Theseus, the hero who died a not-so-heroic death, but Tommy isn’t a good man, certainly isn’t a man at all, not even the child this server refuses to acknowledge his disguise as. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He is Blood and War, just as he is Recovery and Faith. Dream may be able to break many things, but even he is not able to kill a god.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were going to bring me back,” Tommy comments casually, voice never wavering, as Dream tries fruitlessly to cave his skull in. “Just to kill me again. A cycle of death and rebirth that you thought you’d have complete control over, all just to break what you thought was a child. I mean, I knew you were bad, but not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But don’t you get it, Dream?” His hand jolts out and crushes Dream’s wrist tight, the bone crunching beneath his strong grip as the relentless punches slow to a stop. “It’s never my time. Wilbur would never let me. Even if he did, Schlatt would never stop bringing me back. I’ll never rest, not like you will, one day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am a god,” Dream hisses through teeth clenched together as pain crashes up from the base of his hand. Tommy squeezes his deconditioned arm in his grasp and the man yelps, flinching as the bravado seeps out of him till he’s nothing more than as bare-faced as the day he was born, stripped down to the weakling that lies beneath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re an admin,” Tommy reminds him, finding satisfaction in how Dream winces at his true title. For admins have power, but that power is limited, held back behind the chains of the server they rule, and gods can command anything casted in the sunlight. “A fake, a wannabe, a pretender, who thinks he’s got everyone under his thumb. But you don’t you never have.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The figureheads of your server’s two biggest conflicts were not playing by your rules, Dream.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For Schlatt is Life and all that entails, even if he took on the role of a tyrant with no abounds for his cruelty, for Life has never been the most peaceful thing. Death, as false as it may be, encroached without warning, snatching away his last breath as the man pretended to desperately clinging to life, clutching at his chest as if it would force the pain to recede. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Wilbur is Death and all that brings in its wake, the fall of a country and the loss of a son, a brother and a friend. He accepted Death in his open arms, begged for it even, dictating the own demise of the character he had so lovingly sculpted. “You have no control over who lives or who dies. Schlatt may have given you some of his secrets, but even a bastard like that will never play all of his cards at once.”    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I can play your little game, if you want me to so badly.” Tommy shoves Dream away, watching the man stumble with little concern as he clicks his fingers. Code spirals through the air, faintly visible to an admin, entirely invisible to a normal player, but blindingly bright to a god. It’s easy to weave the golden threads and soon, a message displays in blood red for the entire server to catch a glimpse of. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>[TommyInnit was slain by Dream.]</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Dream watches in what Tommy thinks is reluctant astonishment as the final red heart that lingers beside Tommy’s name fades, the colour seeping out it’s a stone cold shade of grey. And yet Tommy’s real heart does not stop beating, for it never thumped to begin with. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” Tommy asks. “For me to die and let the server rejoice in their hatred for good for nothing TommyInnit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” Dream affirms, but the two words tremble. “No one cares about you. No one will mourn. Absolutely no one.” It sounds as if he is trying to convince himself more than he is attempting to persuade Tommy, shaking at Tommy’s sudden unshakeable confidence in faking his own death.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Tommy shakes his head. “But they will, because they’ll have no one to blame all of their problems on anymore, because they’ll be faced with the guilt they never wanted to acknowledge. And they will burn brightly in that anger, because they are at risk now too. An admin killed one man, who is to say he won’t come for them next?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Humans are selfish creatures.” Tommy smiles something bitter, as he thinks of a home razed down to the very core of this server. “And so am I. So is everything that has ever walked on this world. But at least I know that for sure. At least I don’t try to bend everyone else to my will just to fulfill my ego because I’m convinced that only I matter, Dream.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cat, once bloody and bruised in the corner, purrs all of a sudden, stretching out it’s back before it prowls forward and rubs its face against Dream’s leg as the man just stares. “I may be selfish, but I’m not that cruel.” The cat jumps up into Tommy’s arms and he scratches between its ears. Tommy can be cruel, for War can and that’s all he has ever existed to be, but innocence is worthy of protection and so he calls on Life’s favour.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dream murmurs nothing more, no placating apologies, no harsh demands. Manipulation had once been this man’s forte and now he is silent. Good. Tommy prefers it this way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have just one thing left to say to you, Dream.” And Tommy grins, sharp and sadistic, allowing the cat to curl around his shoulders as the lava splits behind him. “You used war to make your perfect little family, but guess what? I am War. And I will never let it work in your favour again.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. 4.2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Continuation of Life from last chapter. This one is a little more heavy on the c!Tommy apologism than usual somehow, but I'm just seriously bitter about how he is treated in canon, I'm sorry.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Technoblade somehow manages to hold onto his apathy long enough to laugh at the news of Tommy, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>child, </span>
  </em>
  <span>being beaten to death in a prison cell by the man responsible for this server’s suffering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blood god grips that disrespect tight in his hands and refuses to let go. A god is a god, as shameful as the humans under his watch, and loosening his attachment to grudges is impossible. He plots retribution in honour of the child he never truly got to be and laughs himself silly at the thought of that syndicate’s inevitable downfall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not surprised, not truly. Tommy spent years watching Techno throw himself into pit after pit just to get a taste of blood splattered across his knuckles and he himself has had a close relationship with the piglin’s victim complex. The blood god’s champion spares very little compassion for the things he refuses to understand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To be fair, Tommy didn’t quite expect the rest of the reactions his supposed demise brought about. Guilt was never a common sight amongst Esempi’s adults and yet he could see it in the worn down faces of people he might have once considered a friend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Apologising to Jack has always been on his to-do list. While Tommy is a supernova that burns brightly in all of his valiant, meaningless rage, the blood god that lies beneath had wished to finally speak that deserved </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry, </span>
  </em>
  <span>for War is always one to lose himself to petty anger. Asking Wilbur to give the man an easy exit from the afterlife was the least he could do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s not at all shocked by Jack’s confusion, the elation that melts into sour realisation. Grief works differently for many. In some, it shuts their eyes to reality even more, turning a vengeful Niki even blinder than she already was. In others, it shines light on the hidden truth and makes closure even further out of reach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s just shocked that such an emotion seemed to spread among the server, infecting those who considered Tommy little more than a stranger. For while Tommy lived, he was simply a disposable resource, a useless child, an aftereffect of loss that people preferred to look away from. But while he stays dead, he is a valuable hero, gone before his time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blood god watches as the server that scorned him proceeds to love him instead and tries to ignore the bittersweet taste on his tongue. It is said that you never know what you really have until it’s too late. These people never had him in the first place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet the family that did does not mourn. They deny his death and continue onwards with their endless anarchy. They believe that he deserves it, that this is simply his past finally catching up to a clumsy and inept traitor, that this is karma for his betrayal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy, the Tommy that they know, might have purveyed a lack of loyalty to an empire built on snow and the backs of dead men. But little do they know that War is not cold-hearted and void of any ability to shed tears. War is Tommy and Tommy is War, and they betrayed both if they ever thought that he would support their tirade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least Wilbur, Death himself, who knows that Tommy cannot die, who did not feel his soul encroaching into the void that is purgatory, wept at the thought of losing him. At least he can find comfort that the brother that raised him from the minute he came into being will always have his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps Phil and Techno will find the thought of his death, his murder, a little less entertaining when the blood god sticks a sword through their throats. They won’t be able to laugh when they are too busy coughing up the blood that floods their lungs, will they?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Patience, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Recovery whispers, a soothing song amongst the plague of violence. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Have patience. It takes time to heal, it takes time to plot. You have all the time in the world to seek your revenge.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Make them grovel at your feet, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Conflict growls, teeth bared, anger sharp and head-piercing, a headache building at the back of his skull. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Make them beg for the blood god’s mercy. You should not allow them peace, not when they only deserve your wrath.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The two parts of Tommy clash, peace against violence, passiveness against hostility. This is why his wings take on such a malformed shape, the soft feathers of a wise owl splayed over the scales of a bloodthirsty serpent. This is why his body shifts and trembles, patches of his skin brightening to creeper green while he gains the tiny ears of a baby piglin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Piglins have always worshipped the blood god, sensing the power that thrums across War’s far-too-young skin. It is why his daily trips to the Nether when it was either scalding heat or the isolation of Logstedshire would always end in trinkets of gold strung over his scarred arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Technoblade is no exception to that rule, but his offerings are forever blood-soaked and tinged with the tragedy of another life lost. There is restraint in War’s bones. Technoblade has never known what the word even means.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>War should have no morals. It should hold no bias. But Tommy is War, for better or for worse, and he will never forgive tyranny, no matter how many times over the centuries that humanity has disappointed him. There is a reason why independence had sounded so sweet rolling off his tongue and now that freedom is buried deep in a crater. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Techno saw himself as a victim but left numerous casualties in his wake. He scorns others for using him as a weapon but all he sees the Esempi’s children as is just an extension of the government he hates above all else. Phil caved into Wilbur’s begging and found himself killing his son for the same crime he’d eventually commit too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy wants so desperately to make them feel regret for once in the damn centuries they have spent offering up bodies to his altar. White wings, now burned a charcoal black, was a constant of the battlefields of old. The angel of death was seen as a messenger of War and so Tommy had considered that the man might have made a steady companion, for his inability to die must mean that he could never change, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Phil had left. He had changed from a father into a man of neglect in the blink of an eye, and Tommy, immortal, unfazed for eons, had changed for the worse in turn. A little more skittish, even louder that he had been shouting war cries, screaming out in agony for the one human he could find himself putting trust in. But he still had Wilbur, at least, and Schlatt was always waiting in the shadows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Schlatt’s domain is Life, Luxury and Greed. Wilbur’s area of expertise is Death, Theatre and Envy. And Tommy is War, Healing, and a mixture of those two deadly sins, for war always teeters on the edge, tipping the scales at random, a primary decider in who lives and who dies. It’s only fair that he finds himself as dramatic and sinful as his forefathers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so he has his brothers and the few humans that still feel like a constant. His warden, one of the few that still found hope in the name of the blood god, but not because of war, never because of war, but the new beginnings it will forever promise. Sam, straddled with burdens too heavy for just one man, who will blame himself for the death of who he was beginning to see as his child. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Poor Ranboo, split-down-the-middle Ranboo, who hates sides but is made of sides all the same. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Choose people, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he advised, and very few chose Tommy willingly. But War is deeply engraved into the bones of everyone who still walks the Esempi and so they will always carry a piece of Tommy with them, whether they like it or not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Tubbo, his best friend, so lost, so misunderstood. Tommy wishes to catch his tears before they can fall and lock Snowchester far from any enemy’s touch. But War does not control borders without some form of dispute and he wishes for no violence to step foot in fresh snow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There has yet to be a grave with his name etched on the stone. Tubbo is still stuck in thick, clinging denial. Ranboo burns in righteous anger and Sam, who faces his ire, is neck-deep in his own sorrowful regret. Statues and monuments stand in its place, glaringly bright, made by those who have never known him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He prefers the quieter symbols of remorse, the subdued reminders of his fall. Tommy may be rambunctious but there’s something much more genuine about the memorial that sits in Snowchester and the budding flowers scattered around the path to his old house. He did not disappear hated just to be revered in his supposed death. There is no glory to this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But glory will never be his, he supposes. Tommy is a soldier, not a poet nor a king, not a mirror image of Wilbur or Techno. He is a god but he is still just a soldier all the same, a world-weary one who finds no true joy in the battles with deathly consequences, forced to oversee fights for causes he has no belief in. He leads the battles, he stands as the figurehead, but the victory is never his own to take.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tommy sighs, snapping his fingers to coat himself in the colourless skin of a ghost. Skin grey, childish face covered in bruises, nose broken and dried blood spilling from the corner of his mouth. He will take this form for what is only a fleeting moment to a god and return to his brethren one the deed has been done. He will find his home again, he swears it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But War has entered the game and his priority is to haunt the half of his family that is still human, still under the impression that two of the sons, two of the brothers, two of the consequences of war, are long gone. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. 5.1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Another blood god!Tommy AU, only this time: a) everyone is a god (or, nearly everyone? haven’t quite figured that out yet for if I do more of this one), but they’ve been separated from each other for so long that they do not recognise the rest of the server as being one of their kind. Only Tommy knows who everyone is, and Wilbur knows who Tommy is but not the rest. b) Dream calls for Technoblade’s favour in his ‘final’ battle with Tommy and Tubbo.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The priests of a time lost to human memory, who had once stood at the helm of his temple with blood forever staining their palms and a ritual tainting the steps of a holy land, often used to tell him that to be the Blood God was a blessing, something fit for only the most capable and brutal man. </p><p>But Tommy is a boy, not a man. Not even his godly status could tear the youth out of him and many would argue that such small and soft hands were not meant to wield the ways of War. Anyone who has come to know him now, on this server, where no one is free of playing pretend, would laugh at the thought of TommyInnit, who is so soul-destroying in his sentimental ways, being as feral as his forebearers. </p><p>Perhaps the priests would have chuckled too, stared the god they adored so much in the face and found the idea that a child with hair as golden as Helios’ sun is one and the same with Blood utterly hilarious. It was hard to discern his facial features with the crusting blood that decorated his skin, covered from head to toe in the spoils of another war he was dragged into with no want himself to fight. </p><p>And yet Tommy is still the Blood God. Those foolish priests are long gone, their ashes scattered in the wind, the sacrifices of their victims unable to be mourned for no history book can speak so far back. Tommy remains, forever remembering the sins that have been carried out in his name and the guilt he carries with such a weight that he almost appears like Atlas, back breaking from struggling with the entire world on his shoulders. </p><p>No one knows that. No one is meant to know that, at the very least. The gods and goddesses of this world split paths eons ago, an unspoken agreement that if they had continued their unhappy existence at the peak of Olympus that they would have eventually ripped the world to shreds with their petty arguments that would not cease. Tommy may have broken their rules, staying so close to Wilbur, but to be Blood on your own would drive any lonely man mad. </p><p>But where is Wilbur? Gone. Not dead, certainly not dead, but a wanderer, pretending to be a shadow of his former self. And so Tommy stood alone, in those days before their crawl to this final fight - the idea of finality in reference to Chaos nearly makes him cackle, for Dream is a stubborn bastard who refuses to ever fully vanish - back in those sandy dunes where he fell from grace and had crashed into the unforgiving waters below. </p><p>The tower still stands, almost at the height limit. It’s a permanent reminder of the voices in the back of his head, that had screeched for him to unfurl his wings from their illusionary binds. But Tommy knew and still knows the aftermath of such an act, the wings of Blood known for their unique, mismatched feathers, and he is sick of being feared, revered and then feared all over again in a vicious cycle.</p><p>Centuries have passed since anyone other than his ex-brother has worshipped him, but Blood is doomed to be forgotten in peace and then forever remembered in war. If his fellow gods knew of his secret, they would search out for War’s favour, for him to bring them good tides in whatever conflict is to come, and it would take all of Tommy’s self-control not to smite them. </p><p>All he wants to do is run through the fields of the Esempi as he does not have a care in the world, falling backwards into the grass just to watch bees frolic around Ranboo’s favourite flowers and set up their hives in Tubbo’s domain. Instead, a blood-curdling sense of rage digs deep down and settles uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach.</p><p>It acts as less of an anchor that keeps him grounded and steady, and more of a mouse trap, pinning him to his violent instincts as he squirms to be saved. Logstedshire was never a sanctuary, for it was a poorly concealed prison in disguise, just as all the builds on this damn server are, offering false hope it could never live up to. This land is stained with golden gore and Tommy would be damned to trust a single god that treads the blood of their kind with every step. </p><p>The nether portal swirls behind Technoblade’s pink hair. Tubbo clutches onto the back of Tommy’s shirt, his fingers shaking as the material bunches up in his grasp, flowers blooming across his scalp as Nature grows more and more frightened of Dream’s wrath. And Tommy? He does not falter, does not gasp, does not bother screaming till his lungs ache. He just stands there, waiting, staring down the piglin he once knew as a sibling, now only known as a traitor to the Blood God’s cause. </p><p>Dream leans against the wall of his vault, preening like a cat who got the cream, the crazed smile likely spreading across his face visible in his relaxed stance. He has razed fields and flowers and fauna to the very pit of his server, never discriminatory in his schemes, and now he watches from the distance, not even bothering to lift a finger as he plays with the fate of two boys he perceives as utterly human children.</p><p>“Apologies, Theseus,” Techno drawls in his usual monotone voice, sincerity not at all detectable in any of the words he speaks. His face is impassive, carefully blank, all of the emotion concealed behind his skull mask. If Tommy squints hard enough, he could fool himself to believe he can see Techno’s dark eyes shining with regret. But he does not bother, as for all his energetic screeching, he is not optimistically naive to the point of foolishness. “But a favour is a favour.”</p><p>Technoblade is Trust, despite his bloodthirsty ways, for trust can always have the most heavy-hearted of outcomes. He pours his heart and soul into those he tries to believe in, and so the inevitable fallout or clashing of morals cuts deeper than it should and leads to his outbursts of violence and carnage. Raining hellfire down is always his endgame and such an emotionally-driven man will always create unbreakable oaths. Of course Chaos himself would not forget any favours owed and owned by such an unstable and yet worthy opponent. </p><p>Tommy dips his control into the ichor that runs through Techno’s veins, spreading his influence like a plague, an infection, one that not even his godly healing could manage to fight off. And the man does not even notice, not the glint of mischief in Tommy’s blue, blue eyes, nor the slight pull to fall to his knees in front of the god he has always revered so much. </p><p>It’s no wonder Technoblade has devoted his killings to the Blood God. Broken trust leads to broken bones in his native language of violence, and he would not be the first to assume that the god who is considered the perfect soldier enjoys such senseless hurt. Tommy is a soldier, in truth, but a child all the same, forced to oversee the conflict he himself has no stake in, and to be on the receiving end of Technoblade’s attempts at ruin has only made him bitter. </p><p>“What good is a favour, when it comes with more of a price then you’d ever admit? It really is fitting that the god of Trust would be so naive.” Tommy’s casual tone of voice contrasts the revelation that he knows exactly who the man standing in front of him is. Techno’s features twist into something sour, as if he has bit into a lemon, as if this is only a small inconvenience, acting as if his heart does not beat rapidly in panic behind that netherite armour. </p><p>Tommy should not know Technoblade’s origins, but blood is older than both life and death. For there to be lives to rise and then fall, there must be blood to pump and spill. And even if Tommy was not privy to such knowledge because of his birthright, then it would honestly not be that hard to pinpoint, for Technoblade is far more easy to read than the piglin would ever like to admit.</p><p>The Esempi is not a kind world. It is a server walked by gods and gods alone. To exist here, one must be cautious beyond belief, and yet, somehow, Technoblade is naive by his own doing. <em> Do not judge, or you too will be judged </em>- and yet Trust, something meant to be fond and whole-hearted, clings pessimistically to his own idols and roots his grudges so deep inside his own skull that not even a herbicide could cut off its growth. </p><p>He never stops judging, never stops resenting, as if he is somehow a saint amongst sinners despite his rising body count and the wither skulls that line his pockets. He still fails to realise he has dipped his hooves into hypocrisy by willingly allying himself with a tyrant. Soon, that will catch up to him. Perhaps that soon is simply right now. “It begins as a favour, and then you’ll be under his control before you know it. Trust is predictable to someone so unpredictable. You, of all people, should know you’re playing directly into Dream’s hands.”</p><p>“I owed him, and I am not one to go back on my own word-” Tommy throws his head back and cuts him off with a laugh, a sound full of equal parts mirth and disappointment, as if Tommy expected that answer and yet it let him down all the same. It’s something that catches even Dream off guard, for Tommy is either genuine in his laughter or false to hide the sobs that threaten to rise up his throat, but he never sounds so bitter and full of scorn.</p><p>“Didn’t you swear to love me, big brother?” It’s a mocking thing and Tommy barely manages to resist the urge to stride up into Techno’s face and spit out the words full of vitriol. Perhaps it is a low blow to bring up their family, when it has been over a decade since they could ever truly call themselves brothers, but Tommy is fueled by all the rage one could expect from the bringer of War. “Or do your promises only matter when they give you the chance to spill blood?”</p><p>And so much blood has been spilled on this damn server that it is so easy to figure out each and every god that walks this earth. Tommy still remembers the scent of their ichor, pouring from their wounds made by meaningless battles back on their shared mountain. Wilbur had a sword through his chest and all Tommy could focus on was the scent speaking of cinnamon sticks and witches burnt at a paling.</p><p>Madness had always been tinged with a homely kind of smell. Wilbur was Madness, and Madness and War are brothers-in-arms, not the exact same, not working hand-in-hand, but intricately connected. And if Wilbur had taught him anything in that damp, dreary ravine, it was to not trust easily, to see past disguises and figure out exactly what lies beneath each and every player’s mask.</p><p>“Tommy?” Tubbo whispers, his voice trembling with obvious shock. Tommy turns on his heel and stares down at the boy, the god, that had made dirt crumble beneath the soles of Dream’s feet and tree roots threaten to wrap around the admin’s ankles, all the while trying his best for his efforts to not be noticed by his best friend. Kind, tired Tubbo, who should no longer have to be merciful.</p><p>He would fear Tubbo’s wrath for his secret keeping if he wasn’t Wrath itself. Nature is an assuming thing at first glance, almost entirely dormant in its quiet months, as the flowers begin to flourish and Nature rests with little trouble burrowing out of its earth. But one would be a fool to think Nature is a god without power, for Nature can turn harsh and frenzied, screaming out in blizzards and black ice, ravaging the world to pieces in its tirade, burning as brightly as the firework that had torn Tubbo’s skin off.</p><p>Trust had pulled that trigger, and Trust is such a fickle thing, something Tommy has long since learnt not to put his stock in. Trust led him underground to obsidian walls and a button on the floor and a sword strike from Chaos incarnate. Trust dragged him to a ravine where his brother fell victim to his own maddening, inescapable ways. Trust exiled him, Trust convinced him to become everything he hates, Trust made a hollow shell of a happy-go-lucky child.</p><p>And the embodiment of that trust stands here, axe slung over his shoulder. Trust was meant to be his brother, and Death was meant to be his father. He thinks of Phil, the crow, the angel of Death, and chokes down a scoff. Phil may bring death, strewing bodies across battlefields till his sandals leave behind bloody footsteps across the arctic snow, but he is not the only cause, not the only inevitability.</p><p>For Tommy is War and without him, Phil could never have his pick of new bones to line his throne or new souls to become his winged messengers. For Tommy is Blood and without him, Phil would not still have specks of crimson stuck beneath his nails and the substance that feeds the thirst of his eldest child. And yet Tommy is the forgotten child, not revered for his untimely ‘death’, not praised for his skills in battle - just plain old Tommy, tossed aside, ignored, for he brings nothing but bad luck and gains nothing but empty promises.</p><p>Tommy’s family is his regret and they are only this way because they refuse to change. Blood does not change, is never not a constant, but at least Tommy feels some guilt for that. He flashes a disarming smile on cracked lips that doesn’t quite land, the small sprinkling of pity for his brother living such a doomed existence washed away by the rising urge to rip off this piglin’s tusks, for he does not deserve the weapons he uses for nothing but his own gain.</p><p>“Who are you?” Techno demands. </p><p>“I am Tommy, obviously,” Tommy responds with a grin that does not reach his eyes. It is not a full answer, and yet answers everything all the same. Tommy is an enigma, an anomaly, the outsider in his family that never quite fit in. There’s a disconcerting air surrounding him, as if something stronger and repulsive lies beneath the youthful mischief he is known for. For all that is wrong with him, he is still that same Tommy they picked up in a ransacked village with no tears falling from baby blue eyes. </p><p>Tommy thinks that Technoblade does not deserve an explanation. The older man was never there, the childish and utterly human part of Tommy screeches, forever mourning the loss of a stable family. Their lives, as entwined as they were, simply was part of a larger game of charades, and yet Tommy, who had been shunned by his own kind decades before they all split, found solace in this act. Gods are not heartless and Tommy has the biggest heart of them all.</p><p>But power corrupts, power crazes, power craves more control - and it turned a would-be father and a reluctant brother into Tommy’s worst nightmare. Betrayal is a game birthed by Blood. Tommy waits with bated breath for them to play their further cards. He will decimate them with a full hand and take every single chip from Dream’s power hungry hands. For that is all this is ever about, isn’t it? Power and influence and the need to rule.</p><p>Everyone blames Tommy for War. They are right, even if for the wrong reasons. He may command the concept, but he never fires the first shot. They all refuse to acknowledge their own weakness to violence, for it is not the fault of war that there is no peace, but it is the fault of the avaricious gods and those that follow them blindly. There would be no need for War if no one craved it as a seemingly effortless problem solver. </p><p>Even if it was Tommy’s reckless abandon that sent L’Manburg’s borders tumbling down, he is still considered a naive little mortal, a coward, a brat. Discipline is always the first word on their lips, and yet they do not believe him to be powerful. They fear what they think is a useless child, and pay no attention to the darkness that begins to seep out from beneath his façade. </p><p>It’s amusing, really. All things considered, Tommy might be the least destructive of them all. Tubbo will eventually hold the detonator to his finished nukes in his palm, Niki always has a knife in her hand and vengeance on the tip of her tongue, and yet it is he, the boy with nothing to his name, who deserves retribution. Such silly conclusions have him craving the sweet taste of revenge, and so he twists his wrist, flicks his fingers upwards, and grins when Techno’s arm moves in much the same way.</p><p>“Tommy, what the hell-” Techno is turning pale, as lily white as the tusks that protrude out from his mouth. His feet stay locked to the floor, even if the usually expressionless piglin looks ready to stumble back through the portal that only stands a few metres away. Dream begins to shift, an uneasiness unsettling amongst everyone in the room except the boy in the centre, wrapped in his supposedly dead brother’s trench coat, wearing a copy of that same brother’s manic grin. </p><p>“It’s all in Blood’s name, is it not?” Tommy asks. Techno casts him a confused look, showcasing an unusual level of fear for a man who does not die. His limbs tremble as they try to shake off Tommy’s invisible grasp, his gaze growing more and more amusingly desperate, until he matches the Tommy that stood bleeding in that pit, mourning another life he thought stolen from his best friend. “Your violence and the blood it creates  - isn’t that all meant to be a sacrifice to the Blood God? You’re such a kind follower, Blade, giving me so much power. Surely you wouldn’t mind if I spilt a little of your own?”</p><p>The moment of silence that follows is deafening. Techno’s eyes widen and Dream stiffens for a split second before his instincts kick in. “Tubbo, scatter!” Tommy shouts over his shoulder, watching as the boy jolts at the sudden scream, pale rose buds blooming in his overgrown hair at the shock. Nature narrowly misses the swing of Chaos’ axe, but then Tommy’s control spreads through Dream’s veins and the man becomes as still as one of the statues that lines the Church of Prime.</p><p>“That was close,” Tommy sighs, skipping over to pat down over Tubbo’s arms, checking for any major injuries even if he cannot sense a single drop of blood. “Be careful, big man. We don’t want another scar for the collection.” Tubbo doesn’t answer and just continues to stare up at him aimlessly, simply gaping, almost like a fish out of water desperate for air, just like how Sally would act when her smaller form would get accidentally stuck on a riverbank. </p><p>Tommy frowns, both at the lack of response and the sudden surge of nostalgia. Gods, it would be so much easier if he was back in the domain he shares with his family. The goddess of the sea splashing through the water, her mermaid’s tail flapping around wildly, her orange hair spread across the waves. Wilbur, in one of his rare peaceful moments, a much smaller Fundy draped across his lap. And Tommy’s mother, the goddess of them all, smiling down with pride.</p><p>Instead, he’s stuck in this stifling vault with his best friend short-circuiting and the bastards he hates gawking at him. Or maybe he forced their blood to turn them completely numb by accident. Still, at least he doesn’t have to hear any more of Technoblade’s mythology lectures as he spins around to wave casually at the sea of people - gods and goddesses, who may not be pleased to learn of Tommy’s true nature - entering through the nether portal. </p><p>“Finally! What took you all so long?”</p>
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  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
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        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29163771">Wrath is All You Have Given Me and it’s All I Will Give to You</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiimaprofessionalfangirl/pseuds/hiimaprofessionalfangirl">hiimaprofessionalfangirl</a>
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        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30412452">Blood of the Covenant</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dirty_Crime_Boi_Autolycus/pseuds/Dirty_Crime_Boi_Autolycus">Dirty_Crime_Boi_Autolycus</a>
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